


Chuck vs. the NSA Agent

by fojee



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, pretend dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fojee/pseuds/fojee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An eventual Chuck/Casey AU in drabbles. What if Sarah was given a different mission? (Far, far away from Burbank, CA) How would one Major John Casey handle the Intersect?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man on a Mission

Bryce Larkin was a damn gymnast, a crack shot, and an all-around pain in the ass. Bryce Larkin was a ghost, with eyes in the back of his too-pretty head. Bryce Larkin had earned his place in John Casey's line-up of paper targets, because Bryce Fucking Larkin, CIA agent gone rogue, had broken into a secure facility under Casey's command, stolen the government secrets contained in the Intersect, blew up the entire room, and got away with it clean. Or almost clean.

John Casey should have gone for a chest shot. He should have kept his damn distance. Should have.

Instead, he shot Larkin's hand while a meter or so away, trying to contain the leak and stop him sending the information to god knows whom. Larkin dropped his cellphone, but he launched himself at Casey before he could change his aim. And Larkin disarmed him and kicked his thigh hard enough that he dropped to his right knee hard. He grunted when Larkin pointed his own gun at his head. He snuck a look down. He was close enough to see the phone. It flashed MESSAGE SENT and an e-mail address before Larkin stomped on it, cracking the screen and killing the power, and getting his attention back to the weapon in his hand. 

"Too late, Casey," Larkin said with a smirk, but his eyes were wild. He pistol-whipped Casey in the jaw. And he was out cold. 

\---

Sarah looked up in surprise. “I, I didn’t think you’d trust me with this, sir. I mean, Bryce had me completely fooled…” She flushed, remembering Cabo.

Director Graham met her gaze over his steepled fingers. They were sitting in his office, with its walls of dark wood paneling and absolutely impersonal décor. It was entirely secure. Even so, he was used to speaking with discretion. “I’m not going to lie to you, Agent Walker. Because of Agent Larkin’s singular act of treason, the CIA is in a precarious position. Consider this a second chance, or is it a third?” He raised an eyebrow, making her feel seventeen all over again.

“I won’t let you down, sir. I’ll get him back.” Sarah bit her lip. “Is there confirmation of the leak?”

“No chatter yet, but the NSA sent their top agent to make sure the Intersect doesn’t fall into enemy hands, or worse, go public.” Inwardly, Director Graham shuddered at the implications. “Just focus on your mission. Get Larkin, Sarah, dead or alive.”

\---

In the ruins of a wide room covered in cracked screens, a very similar conversation was taking place. 

"And that's why you are heading to LA, Major Casey," General Beckman finished a somewhat long-winded explanation of just how important it was to secure the Intersect. 

"Which is just perfect. I'm feeling a little pasty," Major John Casey said with a little too much insolence. He was still steaming mad at himself for letting Larkin escape. At least the handheld that contained the downloaded Intersect had been left behind, though the data was too corrupted to be accessed. He just had to track down the recipient of that e-mail. Piece of cake. He touched his still tender jaw and bared his teeth.


	2. Meanwhile in Burbank

For an NSA Agent, it was easy enough to track down one Charles Bartowski, living with Eleanor Bartowski and Devon Woodcomb, both doctors, in an apartment in Echo Park in California. Major John Casey requested background checks for all three, plus the neighbors.

Bartowski’s file had him working at a Buy More in Burbank. Casey had parked outside the store, and ordered a couple of his men to go in and observe. “Do not engage,” he told them, and they all checked if their communicators were working. It was difficult to set up a wireless surveillance in an electronics store, because of tech interference, but he got some nerd on speed dial to hook him into the store’s security feed, so video was not a problem. Sound was a different matter; but then, he was trained to lip read.

For a second, he wondered if that was deliberate. Maybe this Bartowski was smarter than he looked.

And then he watched as Bartowski set up the sound and cameras so some guy can record his daughter’s little ballerina dance and pronounced his judgment. “What a shmuck.” 

\---

Casey was used to approaching a target with a semi-automatic or a couple of incendiaries. Overkill was not in his vocabulary. _This_ mission, however, required a more delicate touch. He jimmied the lock and entered the house in Echo Park, dressed all in black, with a mask over his face, an outfit he did not appreciate in the California heat. The security was laughable, no alarms blaring, no cameras or bugs recording his every move. It was so… normal. 

“Not for long,” he muttered under his breath, quickly planting the bugs and cameras in optimal locations. He had studied the blueprints of the apartment so he finished in less than a minute, before heading to Charles Bartowski’s bedroom to collect his laptop. He had send Bartowski out with a call to the nerd herder for a repair, trusting his tech to invent something suitable for the kid to fix. 

He didn’t expect to see someone at Bartowski’s desk, hunched over the laptop, wearing enormous headphones that practically swallowed his head as he played some kind of game. _You’re getting rusty, old man,_ he berated himself just as one Morgan Grimes, Best Friend, looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, hand going to the gun in its holster. _Civilian,_ he had to remind himself, consciously letting go of his weapon. So he stepped forward, intending to give Grimes a love tap.

In a move faster than he expected, Grimes grabbed the laptop and used it as a shield, too late for Casey to pull back his punch. He probably cracked a couple of knucklebones as he dented the bottom of the laptop. And then the little pipsqueak dropped it. It crashed to the floor. 

For a second, Casey contemplated crushing the other man’s windpipe for the sheer pleasure of hearing it make that exact same sound, but a settled for a fist to the jaw—which made him wince. Broken knuckles. Right. Grimes folded like origami and Casey took what’s left of the laptop, ripping the cord to Grimes’ headphones with a quick jerk. His techs could salvage data out of a microchip the size of a filling, so the data had probably remained intact. He hoped.

\---

“What do you mean Hulk stole my laptop?” Chuck asked his best friend in exasperation.

“Well it was either that or a ninja. But he looked too big,” Morgan said with a mouth full of chips. “Does Hulk wear black, though? I guess he thought green would be too obvious. He’s going incognito.” He was watching Hulk, and gestured to it as if to accuse Eric Bana of laptop theft. “I should have asked for an autograph.”

\---

“What do you mean it’s not there?” Casey leaned forward, making the little nerd sweat.

Douglas Hartinger, or Dog, as he was called, leaned back as far as his ergonomic chair let him. He was an NSA tech based in California and not a field agent, and was suitably nervous about working with guys like Major John Casey. So he turned back to his laptop and focused on the screen, fiddling unnecessarily with the cable connecting it to broken laptop he was hacking. He was used to working based on need-to-know information, so the parameters for his search were a little vague. 

“I traced the e-mail from Agent Larkin,” he stuttered out. “And was able to retrieve the file, but it was empty. The attachment’s gone. I did find some coding of some modified Sweeper virus. It was also attached to the e-mail so it would delete the contents as soon as it was downloaded. It’s very elegant,” he said admiringly, though he shut up when Agent Casey growled.

“Nerds,” Casey muttered under his breath, thinking of both Larkin and Bartowski. He had uncovered their connection of course: roommates at Stanford. How long had they been collaborating? Bartowski and his apple pie life—nobody was that clean. He had to be hiding something.

He rubbed his chin, before sending off a quick message to the general. ENOUGH PUSSY-FOOTING. WE'RE BRINGING HIM IN.


	3. Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes even Casey makes mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware that this part is really short, but I'll post the next one tomorrow, I promise! I'm almost done with the pilot, and afterwards will resort to scattered drabbles. And yes, Kane is inspired by Christian Kane as Elliot in Leverage.

They were in California and it was easy enough to hire some pretty, little blonde to act as bait, luring the target out on a supposed date. Bartowski fell for it hook, line and sinker, complete with gaping fish face while Casey watched on the surveillance feed. He would have chuckled, or at least smirked, if it didn’t seem too easy. He refused to let his guard down. Even when he watched Bartowski practice his moves in front of the mirror. _What a dweeb._

The girl was supposed to take him to dinner in a small café on the bad side of town, but her cover was new girl looking for someone to show her around, so she had to follow Bartowski’s lead. They met just outside Buy More, ate at some kitschy little place, and then Casey and his team tailed them to a small, crowded club where he got an eyeful of Bartowski doing unspeakable things on the dance floor with the blonde, who was reciprocating a little too enthusiastically. 

His point man, Kane, raised an eyebrow, but he gestured for them to wait: too many people and too many things that could go wrong. A part of him was itching for a fight, but he knew there was a time and place to let go, and to hold back. His men had also been instructed to scope out the rest of the people there. It was possible that Larkin was just waiting for the opportunity to make contact. The thought of getting both of them distracted him enough that Kane had to elbow him to catch his attention.

“He’s gone,” Kane practically shouted in his ear.

”Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, hand going to his weapon as his eyes scanned the room. Kane contacted the rest of his men and they fanned out. There was a guy lying on the ground floor, surrounded by a tangle of people, which made his job that much harder. He had one guy covering the entrance, but the club could have a back door somewhere. After ten minutes, it was obvious Charles Bartowski and Lily Rose had left the club. 

Outside the door, he took a minute to let his eardrums recover, before pulling out his phone and calling the girl’s number. Lily Rose had no connection to the NSA. She took some classes at the college in daytime, and worked nights, an independent contractor offering a wide variety of services. Casey got her name from another contact of his, one he trusted, well, more than most. The possibilities ran through his mind even as he waited for the girl to answer. Someone else could have gotten to them both. She was a spy. She was working with or for Larkin. Bartowski turned her in one date.

“Hello?” She finally picked up.

“Where the hell are you?” He barked out, even as he activated the trace on the girl’s phone. They all piled into the van, engine already warming up.

“Something happened, okay.” Her voice went softer, as if she was trying not to be heard. “Look, I don’t really know what you want with this guy, but he’s really sweet, and I’m not entirely comfortable…”

“You get paid for sex, missy,” Casey interrupted with a growl. “How uncomfortable would it be to…”

It was a mistake. “Well why don’t you stick your money up your ass,” the girl interrupted his diatribe, before hanging up.

There was a moment of silence, before Kane ventured. “We got her general location, sir.”

Casey growled out one word. “Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing explicit is planned (because I can't write smut). But feel free to write in this AU. :P


	4. Hot Flashes

Lily Rose did not mean to be a cliché; she wasn’t a prostitute with a heart of gold. Unless the gold was something you could pawn off so she could finally pay off her student loans, plus some extra for say, a new pair of Jimmy Choos. But well, she was used to sleeping with rich, sleazy guys. She had a script, and it was easy enough to follow. 

Charles “Call me Chuck” Bartowski was at the opposite end of the sleazy spectrum. 

They had dinner first, and it was nice to just sit down and talk, but she couldn't really enjoy it. At any given moment, she expected the man who hired her to come in, guns blazing. When a waiter dropped a plate, she must have jumped three feet in the air. Afterwards, she realized how silly she was being and started to relax.

Then Chuck took her to a small club—not someplace she frequented, but it was familiar enough to her, though she had to pretend to look around like it was all new—and after a drink, she pulled him to the dance floor. At first, it was like following the script. She extended her wiles, like they were tentacles slowly wrapping around him. His ears reddened and he laughed at all her jokes, and he didn’t cop a feel. Sweet guys were rare enough in her kind of business that she was enjoying herself for a change. 

She almost forgot what she was there for, but when someone tapped her on the back, she stiffened a little, turned around and met Erik’s intense gaze.

Erik Pinter: ex-client, and currently blacklisted. He was rich enough to afford repeat visits, but he had a tendency to be extra clingy afterwards. And then the phone calls started, the niggling feeling of being followed at night, and things in her apartment started disappearing. One day, Lily Rose found him standing in her living room going through her mail, and she slapped a restraining order on him so hard it caused an earthquake. 

His hand was still gripping her shoulder, and he had an expression of such malevolence on his face that she stepped back right onto Chuck’s toes. 

“Hey, dude, back off,” Chuck said, dislodging Erik’s grip. He had automatically placed himself between her and this new guy, using his height to his advantage, since he wasn’t really the intimidating type.

“Lily’s mine,” the guy said, loud enough to be heard over the music. 

“Who?” Chuck turned to his date. “I thought your name was Sandra?”

 _Oh shit._ Lily Rose thought, before shoving Erik to the ground and grabbing Chuck’s hand to pull him outside. “I’ll explain later,” she shouted, even as she negotiated the crowd expertly, heading straight for the employee exit through the back. 

Chuck would have wondered why she seemed to know the place she said she’d never been to before, but he was still stuck on the fake name. They were back in her car when he finally got enough wind to ask, “So, Sandra?”

She spared a glance at him. “It’s complicated, Chuck. I appreciate you standing up for me like that, but well, I don’t really deserve it.” Her pale green eyes were loaded with guilt.

Her words left Chuck even more confused. “First of all, which is it? Lily or Sandra?”

She bit her lip. “Actually, it’s neither,” she admitted. “I just got used to working under different names, that’s all.”

“Oh my god, you’re a spy!” And his face broke into a big smile. Just then her phone began to ring. 

“I am not a spy, Chuck,” she had time to say before she answered the call. It was Big Dude, who proceeded to insult her. It was the perfect ending to a rollercoaster night and she hung up on him, and tried very hard not to throw her phone out the window. 

She stopped the car at a road just overlooking the freeways, and popped the lock open. “I’m not a spy,” she said again. “But I’m starting to think you are. And I just cannot afford to get involved. I’m sorry. Please get out.”

Stunned, Chuck could only obey. She sped off without another word. He turned towards the railing, looking out into the city, contemplating how bizarre his night had been and how not ready he is to date again, when the thing happened again.

All day, he had been getting some weird flashes triggered by something he heard on the radio or television, or even a building. It was weird. He got some big image, something innocuous like apple pie, and then they zoomed closer to other images, and he suddenly knew things that he didn’t know before. It was like his brain was being hijacked. So was his mouth. So he turned around and babbled to the first guy he saw, “They’re gonna kill him, General Stanfield, the NATO guy, at the peace talks there, at that hotel. There’s this Serbian demolitions expert in town, and I saw him buy things to make a bomb.”

Major John Casey frowned at the target’s dilated pupils. Bartowski didn’t seem to notice he had a gun pointed at him. He held up a hand to signal his team to step back, before he holstered his weapon and grabbed the kid’s arms. “Tell me everything.”

“No time!” Chuck practically shouted. “We have to go stop him.” He looked around as if looking for a cab.

Casey manhandled him to the van. “Where to, boss?” His driver asked.

“--- Hotel. And step on it,” he growled.

Chuck turned to him, as if seeing him for the first time. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, “he whispered. “I’m suddenly getting these…” And he waves a hand around his head, as if shooing flies. 

Casey, smooth as silk, or so he liked to think, introduced himself “Major John Casey, NSA” and diverting the target from revealing more classified details that the rest of his team aren’t supposed to know. “We’ll figure it out, okay. Our priority right now is stopping this terrorist. Can you tell me any more details about him?”

And he quizzed Bartowski for the rest of the ride, coaxing details from him. His voice was low enough that the rest of his men couldn’t hear him, but Kane was sitting on the other side, and Casey could see his friend and teammate stiffening at the classified information falling out of Bartowski’s mouth. This required a little more delicate handling than he was used to.

They parked as close to the entrance as possible, and Casey would have loved to keep Bartowski in the car away from the danger. But the truth was, he didn’t know this Serbian bastard by sight, didn’t know his M.O. at all. And that could cost them time they didn’t have. He got his men to call for a bomb squad and secure the exits and then he growled into Bartowski’s ear, “You stick with me no matter what, okay?” 

Bartowski nodded. Good boy. Casey grinned like a shark. He lived for this.


	5. Bombs Away

Bartowski led them to one of the conference rooms. Casey scanned the room, noting all the exits, the terrible security ( _Oh, heads will roll for this._ ), and the main target standing in front of the crowd. There were too many people to evacuate, but he motioned to his men and they fanned out. He grabbed the kid’s shirt and hauled him closer, hissing in his ear. “Anytime you’re ready, Bartowski.”

He pointed at a tray in the middle. “It’s there. The bomb’s there.” He said it loud enough to spook the terrorist, and cause some guests to panic, but Casey ignored all that, his attention zeroing in on the threat. He trusted his men to deal with the rest. 

He carefully lifted the cover and opened the laptop underneath. It displayed the countdown. There wasn’t enough time to call in any EOD specialists. The laptop was obviously on auto trigger, and the cables could be booby-trapped. His mind raced while beside him, Bartowski was hyperventilating.

“Tell me you saw something useful,” he demanded. “Like bomb schematics.”

Chuck shook his head mutely, but just then his phone rang. He answered it automatically; it was Morgan, and something he said sparked an idea in Chuck’s head. 

“Let me,” he said, fingers creeping towards the keyboard. 

Casey stopped him. “That’s not an X-box and you’re not an X-Man.”

“I understand that. This is a Prism Express laptop, okay? We sell this at our store. It has a DOS override.”

Casey growled, not following the other man’s logic, but the other option was calling in Hartinger from the nerd squad, and that’s probably just as useless. “Fine. Go.”

Chuck Bartowski cracked his knuckles. “Mr. Bomb, meet Mr. Internet.”

\---

Porn? Serbian porn at that? Casey gritted his teeth. Bartowski proved himself even more of a wild card. But the kid _did_ stop a bomb from leveling a room full of peaceniks. Did he do it to evade suspicion? Was it part of Larkin’s plan? 

After the bomb had been disarmed, he had Kane confiscate the security tapes as NSA property and told the rest to stay and run interference. Then he hauled Bartowski outside to the parking lot, away from the crowd. 

The kid had the gall to smile at him. “I did it. I disarmed a bomb.”

He slammed him against the side of the van, just hard enough to rattle his teeth and make him focus. “Tell me everything you know about Bryce Larkin.”

He read the confusion on Bartowski’s face, could be feigned, but highly unlikely. “Bryce Larkin? From Connecticut? He used to be my college roommate.” The kid’s mouth twisted a little. “Then he got me kicked out of Stanford and stole my girl. What does Bryce have to do…” Then his eyes widened. “He sent me an e-mail, for my birthday.”

“And you opened it, and downloaded an entire database’s worth of government secrets,” Casey finished for him. 

“Government what?” 

“Bryce Larkin stole the Intersect, which is a database of combined NSA and CIA intel. Your little buddy is a traitor,” Casey said slowly as if speaking to a child. “And the information inside your little noggin belongs to Uncle Sam. Which means _you_ belong to Uncle Sam now, Mr. Bartowski.”

“What, so I can be all I can be?” Chuck shot back. “No thanks!” He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Look, I know from personal experience how good Bryce is at stabbing your back. But I really don’t know why he sent that e-mail to me. And right now, I couldn’t care less. Can’t I just go home? I mean this Intersect thing, it’ll still be here in the morning, right?” He tapped his temple.

Casey narrowed his eyes. “I’ll drop you off,” he said.

“Thank you, but I’ll take a cab.” Chuck turned away, but was stopped by Casey’s arm wrapped around his bicep.

“Think again, dumbass. I just told you how important you are. I’m not letting you out of my sight. Get in the car,” Casey ordered then his voice softened a little. “We can go over the ground rules.”

\---

 _No one else must know. Not his sister. Not his best friend. Not the other NSA guys, even._ “You guys aren’t that big on trust, are you?” Chuck snarked a little, but stopped when Casey shot him a red-hot glare. “Fine. I get it.”

“I’ll have to discuss with the general what to do with you. I’m not making any promises,” Casey warned him, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “But for right now, you just go back to your routine. No sense alarming anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary. But anytime you get a flash, you contact me ASAP. Is that understood?”

“But what exactly are my options?” Chuck asked just as they stopped in front of Echo Park. 

Casey growled. “How about dead or alive, Bartowski?”

Later, when Ellie asked him about his date, he opened his mouth and lied to her face. It felt like the end of the world.

\---

“We could still try extracting the data,” Casey mused aloud after his report was done. “The subject didn’t seem that thrilled to have it in his possession.”

“That’s a negative. It’s still on the table for the long-term and our scientists are looking into it," the general said in her crisp voice. "But we have come across certain information about the nature of the Intersect. It was initially created for live agents, but trials were stalled for want of viable subjects. This is an unprecedented opportunity and we've decided to take it. You will monitor and test the capacities of the Intersect in the field. You may keep a man or two as back-up, though you may expect to do joint work with CIA teams. Read in your IT guy and we'll set up a line to connect him to the asset. The Intersect will be put to work."

"Roger that." Casey hung up, and went back to cleaning his gun, half his attention on it and half on his screen which showed the kid lying on his bed. “Well, Bartowski, guess it’s your lucky day.”

\--

Chuck woke up thinking last night was one hell of a surreal nightmare. He showered, got dressed in his Nerd Herd uniform, and ate breakfast on auto-pilot. Maybe it wasn’t real, just the product of his fevered imagination. 

He held on to that thought all morning until Big Mike came and introduced their newest hire at the Buy More: one John Casey. Who crossed his (huge, scary) arms over his green shirt and smirked at Chuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got the pilot episode out of the way. The rest of this might be in drabbles. Um, and I don't write smut, so...


	6. You Keep Me on My Toes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretend there had been a longer period of time between the first episode and the third (Chuck vs. the Tango). As for the changes I did think that Casey would take protective detail more seriously if he were Chuck's sole bodyguard. And he wouldn't be as distracted as Sarah by the desire to preserve Chuck's normality. 
> 
> Also, aside from the first paragraph, I wrote this all today, after a comment from KityKat1993 so this bit is dedicated to her.

Chuck had never thought he’d miss his boring life. For the most part, nothing had changed. He still handled computer repairs and trouble-shooting phone calls, from rescuing Mr and Mrs. Polanskis' corrupt porn files to Sheila Ray's million selfies and photos of her not-so-cute dog from her phone. It was routine. He could probably sleepwalk through it all. 

Except some days he had had to. Because he spent all last night going through tests, being bombarded with pictures and headlines from all major world newspapers, until he flashed on something. It wasn't the most efficient process, but it produced results. And Casey loved results, especially if they meant he could strap on his twenty million guns and go on a mission. 

Missions that Chuck didn't go on. "It's for your own safety," Casey growled. "No way am I taking a liability where I'm going." 

"I'm not a liability," Chuck mumbled under his breath. 

Casey just raised an eyebrow and went back to cleaning his guns. All twenty million of them.

He had no problem with being left behind. No, sir. But he had a very big problem with afterwards. 

John Casey would come back with an extra edge in his smile and write his reports and send them back to the NSA where they would get encrypted and encoded and fed back to Chuck in secure emails. Every operation the American government was involved in, every failure and success, every piece of the puzzle, all shoved to the back of his brain. 

Most of the time, it was just data, images devoid of context, unfamiliar faces easily forgotten. He didn't have to _know ___everything, his brain just has to do its magic, storing the information for easy access. Unfortunately, he would take one look at Casey and _his ___missions would swim to the forefront of Chuck's poor, beleaguered brain. And the missions weren't always a success. There were occasional casualties, near-misses, outright losses. The one time Casey got shot was unadulterated nightmare fodder.

__So really, he just wanted to get rid of that helpless feeling, which is why Chuck kept on badgering Casey to take him along._ _

__"I could be useful in the field. And I look like this," Chuck said, gesturing to himself, "so I'd be great at undercover."_ _

__"At least you know what you look like."_ _

__Chuck ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "I'd be less a liability if you trained me--"_ _

__"Fine," Casey snarled back. "But I get to choose which mission. And you need to start going to the firing range."_ _

__After he got over the shock, Chuck answered slowly, "That sounds fair."_ _

__Casey just growled in his direction._ _

__\---_ _

__La Ciudad. Mysterious arms smuggler. Never been identified. And always leaving a trail of bodies in their wake._ _

__When Chuck flashed on the painting in the newspaper, he didn't think much of it. He and Casey had been going on the range a couple of times a week. He was a fair shot and a quick learner, to Casey's surprise and grudging respect. Of course, Chuck didn't know if he could actually shoot anyone _dead ___._ _

___But that night, Casey awarded him with a pea-shooter and an ankle-holster, and announced he would be joining him on the field on this one._ _ _

___"If La Ciudad is going for the painting, you're the only chance we have to identify him."_ _ _

___Chuck gulped. "Okay, so what do I do? I mean, any tips and last-minute instructions?"_ _ _

___Casey glared at him over his bonsai. "Don't lie too much, because you're terrible at it. In fact, unless it's to identify the target, don't open your mouth at all. That gun is only for emergencies. Meaning I don't foresee you needing to draw it for the entirety of the mission unless everyone on my team is dead or incapacitated. If that ever happens, feel free to use it on yourself. You don't leave my sights for the entire night. That includes bathroom time so don't drink too much and go before we leave."_ _ _

___"Anything else?" Chuck asked bemusedly._ _ _

___"Yeah," Casey smirked. "You do know how to tango, do you?"_ _ _

___\---_ _ _

___Captain Awesome was a surprisingly good instructor. Chuck ignored Ellie's snorts of laughter as best as he could._ _ _

___\---_ _ _

___He wasn't exactly an art auction kind of guy. Now if this were comic-con, and the painting was like, a super rare Alex Ross original or something... Chuck grimaced. His attempts to distract himself weren't working._ _ _

___He tried not to look too closely on the rest of Casey's team scattered around the room near the exits. They weren't supposed to know about him. But he knew them. He knew which missions they were on last, which one was trigger-happy, which one had a drinking problem, and which one had killed an entire roomful of people just like this the week before. It was nerve-wracking to say the least._ _ _

___But no La Ciudad. He was jumpy with nerves and tempted to down the glass of champagne in his hands and grab another one, but Casey caught his eye from behind the bar and the warning in them was clear enough. No liquid courage for tonight._ _ _

___In an attempt to distract himself, he walked a long, meandering route toward the painting, contemplating the bubbles in his glass._ _ _

___So of course, he almost tripped over a lady in red, who hissed at him like she had venom behind her shiny teeth. He stammered an apology and backed away, right into someone else._ _ _

___She was a sultry lady with long hair and a sparkly black dress. She was nimble enough to avoid him and grabbed his elbow to keep him steady. "Careful," she said. "Too many long dresses tonight."_ _ _

___Chuck smiled in thanks. "Yeah, it's a danger zone for people with two left feet such as myself."_ _ _

___"Two left feet? That's too bad," she said. "I was just going to ask for a dance."_ _ _

___Around them, tango music began to play._ _ _

___Chuck stared into her eyes--no flash, that was good--and lowered his voice. "I could be persuaded. But only if you lead."_ _ _

___She held out a hand, "I am Malena."_ _ _

___"Charles," Chuck said. "Charles Carmichael."_ _ _

___\---_ _ _

___Casey never took his eyes off Bartowski. He could hear Spencer's report through his earpiece. They had a minor scuffle with some MI-6 agents on the roof. The painting was a decoy, a trap for La Ciudad, of which there was still no trace._ _ _

___But his gut had cramped when Bartowski smiled at the foxy lady, and he told himself it was because she had Hispanic features, and could be their target. He slid out from behind the bar, grabbing someone else's tray as he maneuvered for a better position while that damned tango played on. _Stupid joke. ___Which of course, Bartowski would have taken seriously. _Stupid, stupid Bartowski. _____ _

_____He was close enough to see the flash. At the end of the song, Bartowski's eyes fluttered. It wasn't that obvious, unless one was familiar with the phenomenon. Casey bared his teeth, not even bothering to wait for the kid to use his watch to inform him. He shoved the tray at some random suit and stepped forward even before the kid was on his feet._ _ _ _ _

_____"Mind if I cut in," he said, grabbing Bartowski by the arm and pushing him subtly to the side._ _ _ _ _

_____The lady lifted an eyebrow but let herself be dragged close. Close enough to feel the gun Casey's packing._ _ _ _ _

_____John Casey leaned forward and murmured in her ear. "I know who you are, darling." He made sure her hands were immobilized while he led her off the dance floor._ _ _ _ _

_____Where one Chuck Bartowski was still gaping like a fish._ _ _ _ _

_____\---_ _ _ _ _

_____Casey reviewed the surveillance tape of Bartowski dancing with Awesome. He was smiling, and when he realized it, curbed it into a more respectable smirk. _Stupid Bartowski. __If there was more fondness than disdain at the thought, he did his best to ignore it._ _ _ _ __


	7. Bite the Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Awesome was such a mouthful, I just ended up using Devon.

Morgan Grimes had been replaced. Oh sure, there was that one time Chuck went to Stanford and met some dude named Bryce, but they all knew how that went down. Chuck came back. Chuck came back to _Morgan._

Now, though, things were different. Chuck started keeping secrets. He got weird phone calls at work, and tuning out most of Morgan's stories like he wasn't really there. He started disappearing on their gaming nights with the lamest of excuses. And he started hanging out with _somebody else._ Someone who could crumple Morgan's face with one fist.

It was time to call in some reinforcements.

\---

"What is this, an intervention?" Chuck asked weakly from the couch, while around him, Ellie, Devon and Morgan stood around with their arms across their chest. 

Ellie's stern gaze softened first, taking a seat beside Chuck and grabbing his hands. "I'm worried about this John Casey, Chuck. Morgan said even Jeff and Lester have noticed him following you around. And isn't it weird that he shows up at the same store you work, and moves to the same place you live? Tell me the truth, Chuck. Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"What? No!" Chuck denied, even as his palms began to sweat. Or be clammy. Was there a verb for hands to be clammy? Did they clam? He slid his clammy hands out of Ellie's hard grip and shook his head, both to clear it and to empathically deny that anything was wrong. 

"You can tell us, bro. We won't judge," Devon added, thumping his back like the motion would dislodge the secrets he was keeping.

"Yes, Chuck. If you can't tell your best friend, who can you tell?" Morgan said solemnly.

"I, uh, I mean John and I, uh," he stuttered out, when an idea began to form in his head. A very _bad_ idea, but the only one he could think of. "We've been seeing each other," he blurted out. He shot a look of panic to where he knew Casey had installed a camera in the living room.

It was a _save me_ look, or a _please come and shut me up_ look. He didn't quite know which was which.

Ellie's eyes had widened. "Chuck, what are you saying?" Morgan's and Devon's jaws dropped wide open.

Chuck bit the bullet and said, "I'm gay. Well, no, not really, because there was Jill, and you know I really, really, um, so I guess I'm sort of bisexual?" 

"And you and John Casey..." Devon asked, his eyebrows rising up and down suggestively, though the rest of his features belied his disbelief.

Before Chuck could agree or deny that it was true--the way things were going, he wasn't sure what his mouth would say next--the doorbell rang.

_Oh, thank god,_ he thought. "Um, that might be him right now. Maybe I should talk to him first alone. I mean, he might get mad that I outed him to you guys and everything." 

Since Ellie looked like she needed to lie down, and Devon looked like he needed a good, stiff drink--and not the protein shake kind--they didn't protest as Chuck wrenched the door open, and manhandled Casey out into the courtyard. Morgan shuffled forward a little, his mind whirring through every homoerotic moment he shared with his best friend. If Chuck was bi, maybe he should be, too?

"I'm really sorry about this," Chuck babbled, not daring to meet the NSA agent in the eye. "It's just, I couldn't think of anything, and it was either this or the truth, you know?" 

"No, Bartowski," Casey said softly through gritted teeth. "It was a good idea."

"It was?" Chuck was struck speechless, even as Casey nodded grimly.

"If they had sent a girl to protect you, it'd make for an excellent cover. So I guess we'll just have to deal."

"Casey, you mean to tell me you're okay with people thinking we're, uh." Chuck gestured between them. "Together?"

"I'll report to the general tonight," he replied, ignoring the question altogether. "Just make sure they don't spread the word." Casey saw Morgan at the corner of his eye. The little rodent was now standing by the doorway like a robot, watching them in disbelief. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward, kissing Chuck's slack mouth. It was just a peck. Too much would be even more suspicious, especially since Bartowski might give it away with his reaction. "Good night, Chuck." He nodded to Morgan and turned on his heel. "The things I do for my country," he muttered under his breath.

Chuck watched Casey walk away, his brain struggling to catch up to the events. He managed a weak smile for his best friend, though he was fighting the urge to either wipe his lips or hyperventilate.

"Dude! Do you know what this means?" Morgan asked him as if waking up from a daze. 

"Um, you hate me and don't want to see me anymore?" Chuck asked 

"Coming out party! We'll invite our fellow Buymorians, get Jeff to bring a whole lot of beer, and maybe Casey can make those mini-quiches again. What do you say, huh?"

"Oh no, no, no, no!"

\---

"So whose brilliant idea was this, anyway?" Casey spoke directly into Chuck's ear, which made him jump about three feet in the air. The other man was standing right behind him, with a glass of scotch and a surly expression.

Chuck looked around at the people standing in the courtyard. Everyone was either holding a bright red cup, or a plate with one of Ellie's brownies on it. Ellie had latched on to Morgan's throw-away comment like a python squeezing a mouse to death. She had baked up a storm, invited the neighbors and their co-workers at the Buy More.

"Please don't kill Morgan," Chuck said in reply. "And Ellie. They just... well, it's better than getting thrown out of the house for being sexually deviant."

Casey snorted at that. _Oh God, I just got in a fake relationship with the manliest man in the history of the United States Marines._ He was absolutely fucked. Then Casey put an arm around his waist and it was like an iron band choking him. He squeaked.

"Well," Casey said after a moment. "They seem to like my mini-quiches."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I basically have almost nothing written after this. Feel free to chime in for suggestions or even write your own version of what happens next.


	8. Kiss Me, Kill Me

The one good thing about pretend dating: at least now Chuck had a convenient excuse to fend off his best friend and his sister, for when he needed to join a mission, or stay out all night playing back-up on the comm lines, or suffer through the endless hours of training with Casey.

Except that training led to bruises, and bruises led to Ellie's frowny face--something Chuck was really getting sick of. He loved his sister, would do _anything_ for her. But if she asked the wrong question, and maybe put two and two together with that brilliant brain of hers... She would be in even more danger than she already was just by being around him, and Chuck would never forgive himself. 

 

He didn't know it yet, but Casey had a plan. 

It involved fake dates and some PDA in front of certain civilians who needed more convincing, and by the end of the year, Chuck could feasibly move in with him. And then in another year or so, the two of them would 'move' away, maybe he'd get Chuck a new job title to impress his sister with, and they could be on the field more often. (Depending on if the kid actually passed his training. His odds were, hmm, maybe fifty-fifty.) 

Playing house in the suburbs were alright for awhile, but as the weeks stretched to months, working at Buy More (and interacting with those idiots) was dulling his edge, making him _soft._

And that was unacceptable. 

 

The first time John Casey gave him tongue, Chuck was not expecting it.

He may or may not have choked, his own saliva going down the wrong tube, and he coughed and wheezed while they were on his sister's couch after dinner one night. Casey's hand rubbed his back, but Chuck could feel the evil emanating from the man's tense fingers. He knew his face was beet-red. And Ellie was fetching him a glass of water, and Devon was getting ready to Heimlich him all to hell. 

"I'm okay," he finally managed to speak, though his voice was a bit high. "I just... Aren't you being a little too forward?" He asked Casey with a sidelong glance that spoke volumes. "In _front_ of my _sister_?"

Casey crossed his arms. "Maybe I wanted to make sure she was really okay with the two of us," he said, almost in challenge. "I know I'm not exactly what she wants for you."

"That's... No!" Chuck stood up, gesticulating wildly. "My sister is _not_ a homophobe, okay. I mean, she's still getting used to it, that's all. And, and..." He bit his lip. "Kissing me to rub it in her face is just _rude_. Plus you should ask _me_ first. Just because we're dating doesn't mean I'm easy!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Chuck looked like he wanted to corral them back. But he stood his ground, chin up and hands on his hips. 

From the other side of the room, Ellie's eyes drilled into him like a machine-gun in some trigger-happy plebe's hands. 

Casey forced his shoulders to soften, and his own eyes to lower. "I'm sorry. Let's just say my own family was not so accepting," he said, voice low and gruff and grudging. He let the last word hang in the air uncertainly, and took a deep breath as if to compose himself. The sob story--just a hint, just enough to make it look real--worked like magic.

Ellie and Devon hastened to reassure them of their support, and even Chuck stepped closer, his body taking on a protective stance.

Casey evaluated the posture. Working with the kid was a nightmare and a half, but the training was starting to show. The kid's lanky body now had some increased muscle tone; he was starting to have better stamina, and better form during their sparring. The counter-attacks were not yet instinctive, but maybe beginning to be.

He stood up, smiled tightly at the Bartowskis. "I think maybe I should go. I'm sorry again. I'll see you tomorrow, Chuck?" The lilt at the end was just a touch vulnerable.

Chuck nodded vigorously. "Of course. We were going to have dinner and um, watch movies, right?"

They had a mission a couple of hours away. A drug smuggler. Missing diamonds. And a security system straight from the movies.

"That's right. I have the day off so I'll pick you up after work." John Casey reached to squeeze Chuck's shoulder then walked away, already mentally composing his report.

\---

Most of their missions turned out improbably successful. But sometimes, they skirted the edge. Close calls were about as hard as outright failures. Both left an operative second-guessing himself. Imagining worst case scenarios, fuelling nightmares.

As soon as they got to safety, Casey slammed Chuck against the wall, hard enough to jolt his bones, and was contemplating whether to kiss him or kill him, when Chuck's words finally penetrated. 

"I'm really sorry, Casey. Won't happen again, I promise." If at all possible, Chuck stepped even closer and hugged him, murmuring in his ear, "I should have listened to you. I'm really sorry." His grip on Casey's shirt was almost as tight as Casey's hands on him.

Casey blinked through the red haze to recognize the expression on Chuck's face. Remorse. Fear. Just like that, the rage drained out of him like some quickly-metabolized drug and he almost buckled at the knees. Instead, he growled, manhandling Chuck towards the bed, taking his nine o'clock so the two entry points were in his sight, and he slid in behind him, tucking the younger man under his chin. 

Chuck was tense for a long minute, his shoulders stiff, his breathing uneven. But slowly, he relaxed, melting back to the warm cage of Casey's body. The other man's heat penetrated through the shirts they wore and soothed his sore muscles. They just lay together for a while, catching their breaths, trying to work through the remains of adrenaline in their systems.

Then Casey licked the back of his neck, jolting Chuck from the hypnotic state he had fallen into. 

"Wha--?" He asked, instinctively turning over. But Casey locked him in his arms, kept him facing away, and took another deliberate lick. Chuck shivered in reaction, his hands grabbing Casey's arm.

Which moved, trailing too-warm fingers down his sternum, to flick back and forth on his lower stomach. 

"Oh my god," Chuck muttered almost in prayer. It was years since he's had anybody touch him like this, and he was already half-hard.

Then the fingers slid lower, touching the base of his dick, while Casey put his mouth to a spot under Chuck's ear and started sucking, biting and kissing. Chuck whimpered, arching his neck, his legs splaying open.

Casey touched him from root to tip, slowly but thoroughly, then with a firmer grip, stroking up and down and thumbing at his head once in a while.

Distantly, Chuck thought about reciprocating, but he could only react. Casey let him turn just enough to catch his mouth in a searing kiss. Chuck let his tongue trace the words he couldn't speak, and he gave back as good as he got, until they had to stop to breathe, and he could hear Casey's low growling. Except the growling were actual words, and after a minute they penetrated Chuck's suddenly-sluggish brain. 

"I'll fuck you so hard you'll feel it for weeks. I'll mark your skin to make you mine. Everyone will know it, will see your pretty little bruises and they'll know who you belong to."

Chuck closed his eyes, and whispered a word. "Please."

And Casey, moving like a large yet nimble cat, ripped off Chuck's boxers with one hand, and twisted up and across to swallow him down.

It didn't take very long. A couple of bobs, maybe three or four on the outside, before Chuck's head and whole body exploded into pleasure, white-hot, travelling down his arms and legs and making his fingers tingle and his toes curl. He came in several pulses, and Casey just took it, holding him down effortlessly, while he writhed and gasped and sobbed.

He didn't remember anything after that, didn't feel the tender way Casey cleaned him up, and pulled him back into his arms, tracing carefully over the bruises, and over the kisses. 

 

In the morning, Ellie opened the door to wake her ever-late brother when she saw the two men, fast asleep. She took a deep breath in a soundless gasp, but let it out slowly. 

Chuck was the little spoon. Her little brother was not so little, so it was a tad comedic to see him dwarfed by John Casey's bulk. The blanket covered most of their body, but their bare legs were visible, and tangled in each other. Also visible was Casey's arm, wrapped tenderly around her brother's torso, their fingers intertwined. The older man's face was buried in Chuck's hair. From the scent in the air, it was plain what had occurred in that bed last night.

She watched the two of them, chewing on the inside of her cheek. For months, she had been worried about Chuck. Her brother tended to put up a wall between him and the world, using his snarky humor as smokescreen. But when he fell for someone, he puts his everything into it. He once joked that he was like binary; he only operated in ones and zeroes, yes or no. And now, after years and years, he was saying yes again...

Losing Jill devastated her little brother. She didn't want to see that happen ever again. And their new neighbor was a difficult man to get the measure of. But this was the first time she thought that maybe John Casey _did_ feel the same way. That maybe he would fight for Chuck the same way Chuck would fight for him. She squinted. They looked good together. And her brother was smiling in his sleep.

She stepped out of the room as quietly as she could, closing the door with a soft click.

 

John Casey slowly removed his hand from the gun under the pillow, thumbing the safety back on.

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this taking forever, and thank everyone who left a kudos. The truth is, I couldn't make myself watch the show again, and I had the last bit written for a while, so I just connected it as best as I could. (And wrote in a sex scene...) 
> 
> Also in retrospect Chuck sounds a little like Stiles from Teen Wolf, and I based Casey's behaviour a bit on a spy novel I like called AKA Jane by Maureen Tan. 
> 
> I wish I could write actual pretend-dating shenanigans but maybe somebody else could? ;) I also wanted to write a Sarah/Bryce anti love story but it's just not gonna happen.
> 
> Thanks all! I'm taking a break from fandom in general, but just needed to cross this off my list.


End file.
